


dance with me (just for the hell of it)

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 21:29:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1201351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Joly's most common thought during playoff season is 'they don't pay me enough for this', but a close second is 'probably jesus fuck, Enjolras.'" Hockey AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	dance with me (just for the hell of it)

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for nothing. This is entirely Dean's fault. There will probably be more of it. Eventually.  
> Title from Chelsea Dagger, because I am nothing if not predictable

Joly's most common thought during playoff season is  _they don't pay me enough for this,_  but a close second is probably  _jesus fuck, Enjolras_. He pushes an already activated ice pack wrapped in a cloth towards him while he pulls latex gloves on, and then glances to see Enjolras locked in a deadly stare off with it using the one eye he can still see out of. 'You put it on your face,' Joly says, using his Dealing With Hockey Manchildren tone of voice. 'It'll take the swelling down.'

 

Enjolras spits blood on the floor sullenly. Joly rolls his eyes and pulls gauze out of his bag. 'Hold still,' he says, and makes a move for the cut just above Enjolras's right cheekbone, with mixed results. He gets the gauze there, but Enjolras hisses and jerks out of the way, resulting in them both almost falling off the bench. Joly ignores the cackling from behind him and moves closer again. 'Either you let me clean you up now, or you go to the ER and sit there for four hours while someone who isn't nearly as nice as me patches you up and puts their story on Deadspin. Your choice.'

 

Enjolras scowls again, and turns to watch the game for a minute or so. Grantaire's out there lighting it up with Bossuet and Feuilly on the front line during overtime, and Joly watches them dance around the other team's D-men like they're not even there to slot it into the goal, points for both Grantaire and Feuilly and the game winning goal for the Amis. A victory lap of the rink, and the players all bump helmets with each other before mobbing Marius at the other cage, sending him crashing to the floor with five very heavy hockey players on top. Joly watches Enjolras watching the celly, and takes his chance, grips Enjolras by the neck of his jersey and presses the gauze onto the cut, using an alcohol free wipe to clean it out while Enjolras glowers at him.

 

'Oh, don't sulk,' Courfeyrac says as he glides towards them, grinning and chewing on his mouthguard. Joly has long since given up lecturing any of them about chewing on their mouthguards. He knows when he's beaten, okay?

 

If it's possible, Enjolras glares harder. Courfeyrac just grins wider and turns his attention to Joly. 'What's the news, doc? Is he broken?'

 

Joly lets go of Enjolras long enough to get fresh gauze. 'Put pressure on,' he says in his most official and authoritative voice, and since Enjolras takes it off him and presses it lightly to his face instead of dropping it on the floor, Joly counts it as a win. 'No concussion, he knows where and when and who he is, I don't think his cheekbone's fractured, but we'll have to get some x-rays when you guys have cleared off the ice. Don't worry, I'll return your captain in one piece.' Courfeyrac grins again, tongues his mouthguard back in and salutes before spinning away from the bench and towards Combeferre, who's half heartedly trying to encourage Feuilly to get off Marius.

 

Joly's putting a butterfly bandage over the cut to hold it together until he can get it stitched up, and pushes the ice pack towards him again when Grantaire skates up lazily, and Enjolras's shoulders tense up automatically. 'You're a fucking idiot,' Grantaire says, spitting his mouthguard into his glove. He's already yanked his bucket off, and his hair is slicked back with sweat. Joly can see the tattoo on his neck creeping out from under the jersey collar.

 

Enjolras bristles at that, but Joly interrupts him before he can say anything with 'Keep the fucking ice pack on your face for ten minutes. Ten minutes, Enjolras.'

 

Grantaire speaks over him, and Joly gives up. 'I don't need you to fight my fucking battles for me.' he snarls, and Enjolras drops the ice pack and jumps to his feet. Joly begins repacking his kit silently. He knows it's best if they just blow up at each other now, Enjolras won't want the publicity of punching his teammate in public, and Joly's betting on Enjolras' injury stopping Grantaire from taking a swing.

 

'Well, apparently you won't fight your own,' Enjolras snaps, and Grantaire scowls.

 

'You're the only one fucking  _bothered_  by it. Montparnesse's a dick, you know he is, you didn't need to throw down with him in the middle of the rink for  _my_  sake.'

 

Enjolras' lip curls. 'So you're okay with him calling you a-'

 

'A queer? Yep. Because, newsflash, E,  _that's what I am_.'

 

'That's not the point, and you know it, Grantaire,' Enjolras says, almost shouting not, and even Joly can tell from where he's doing everything he can not to pay attention that he's gearing himself up for an Enjolras style rant that could conceivably last for at least an hour and a half.

 

Joly makes his escape just as Grantaire sneers, says 'Well why don't you enlighten me as to the point,  _Captain_?' Grantaire acknowledging Enjolras as captain, even sarcastically, means a row of epic proportions, and Joly very much does not want to be here for that, so he grabs his bag and snags the back of Bahorel's jersey to check the scabbing on his knuckles from the fight a couple of days ago. He grins wide at the medic, showing the gaps in his teeth, and Joly automatically says 'why aren't you wearing your mouthguard?' before he forgets that he'd given up on that as a lost cause. Bahorel just laughs and punches Joly in the arm as they head down the tunnel together, the sound of Enjolras and Grantaire's raised voices fading slowly into the bustle of a locker room full of guys stripping their gear off as fast as they possibly can.


End file.
